THIS IS A FICTION STORY. PLEASE BE READY FOR PART 2
"I'm trying to do just that! Can't you see the 65 feet of fly line and about 45 yards of shooting line wrapped around my legs and feet?"
Thank goodness the hurler of these well-meaning invectives did not respond to my response to his admonition. After about three hours of fighting this unknown aquatic creature had exhausted any semblance of fly fishing decorum and politeness. Besides, he had his own task of trying to explain to non-fly fishermen what was meant by his instruction to me to "put him on the reel."
"You see all of the line? Normally, fly fisherman play small fish by simply pulling on the fly line with a free hand and bringing the fish into the net and released. Larger fish are played by reeling in loose line and using the flex of the rod to wear down the bigger fish."
A few of his listeners nodded as if they understood his ad-hoc explanation. One thing was very obvious, I was in a real mess. I couldn't get the line on the reel and I couldn't use my hands to attempt to break the leader thereby ending this titanic struggle.
I was not only angry at my inability to extricate from the situation, I was angry at my brother-in-law for convincing me to spend $879 for a two-handed 14 foot salmon fly rod, Hardy heavy duty reel and a 12 weight shooting head fly line with 100 yards of shooting line.
He used a trump card by saying a fellow last week had seen at least a 150 pound King Salmon near his walleye fishing boat. I took four days of vacation to make the trip to Lake Michigan. I caught a boat ride to the mouth of the river that was the spawning area for the Kings.
The battle was witnessed from the shore by a growing number of townspeople. ESPN helicoptered Boomer from the Lions-Jets game to provide world-wide coverage. It was announced that CNN, FOX, and GMA were dispatching satellite trucks and reporters. Reports of the Vice-President, for security consideration, coming the next day could not be confirmed.
I was also angry with the assembled collection of drunks and fly fishermen on the river's edge. The Sunday afternoon arm chair quarterbacks were shouting, cursing, and pushing each other to have their photo taken with Boomer. He was eating it up because he knew this Breaking News would up their ratings and help shrink the large viewer gap held by FOX News. The Boomer knew a lot about sports but he knew next to nothing about fly fishing for Kings. A fly fisherman was hired on the spot to serve as a color man. This dream gig picked up speed but lost altitude as the fly fisherman finished his 10th Old Milwaukee on the make shift set of an overturned wrecked fishing boat. The fly guy as Boomer called him started an argument about deflate gate and Boomer, like all ESPN blue bloods, came to defend the Patriots QB. Boomer won the match by breaking a beer bottle and saying to the fly guy "Back, Back, Back."
Meanwhile, back in the river, I managed to put the monster on the reel but was slowly being pulled closer and closer to some very swift and deep water. What to do to help me? A Purdue freshman ag engineering student and Eagle Scout from Commiskey, Indiana shouted, "Follow me and do as I do." He came out to where I was shoulder deep in very rapid water and locked his arms around my waste, so too the next, the next, and so on. A human chain was holding me from drowning. Boomer once more said, "Back, Back, Back." Inch by precious inch I was pulled by this human chain to the safety of the shore.
The rescue probably earned Boomer and company an Emmy. I was still connected to the beast. It was more and more apparent that I had just a short time to conclude this epic confrontation. What ever was connected was coming to the surface. An American Lit professor from Michigan State, also a fly fisherman, knew Melville's Moby Dick word for word and shouted, "He breaches!" By now I was consumed with the twin fear of losing the monster and the other of actually catching the monster. As is often the case fear and success are next door neighbors.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO
GLENN <><
JUST WEST OF YESTERDAY
J
No comments:
Post a Comment